


halcyon age

by Secretive



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: A sprinkle of crack and fluff, M/M, Post-Pacifist Ending, The DPD are buddies, connor likes dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 19:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15250191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretive/pseuds/Secretive
Summary: Connor starts to pick up Hank's mannerisms and the DPD is horrified.





	halcyon age

Connor is a professional. He is immaculately groomed, chooses his words carefully. Whenever he speaks to clients he is prim and polite, verging on boyish. With suspects he is volatile and mechanical — a machine.  
  
Hank is a stray. Left in the rain and soaked wet to the bone — he speaks carelessly and with volition. He is human, all it's worst indiscretions in one emotional shitstorm.  
  
The line between the two is tense and taut. They are the perfect antithesis. Hank will never say it but it's one of the reasons they _fit_ , like they were born to (designed to).  
  
Punctuality exists on this spectrum. Hank is on one side and Connor on the other. So when Hank ambles into the office at 11:00 am in the morning (a miracle in itself), the elephant in the room isn't his timely appearance, Fowler's frown, a lack of O'Mansley's donuts, but the cause of it all — the glaring Connor-shaped absence across his desk.  
  
Chris walks past, follows his eye, and trips over his feet. He spills his coffee.  
  
"Where the hell's Connor?" Hank says this a little too sharply. He's not angry, nor does he have the right to be (considering his appalling track record). Chris does not have answers for him. He cleans his coffee.  
  
"Don't ask me —" Chris stands and pats him on the back, "I'm in shock, too."  
  
Hank likes Chris — he does, but he is prone to conforming with the office's pranks and knacks. He grabs his elbow.  
  
"If you're messin' with me, I swear to god Chris — where the hell is he? Hide him in a storage unit?"  
  
Chris raises his hands. He looks truly apologetic, "I'm sorry, Hank, but I don't know. Everyone's on edge. Tina's called CyberLife — he's not on site receiving upgrades, but he's online. Maybe he —" Chris scratches his neck, bounces his eyes across the room, "— got lost."  
  
He sounds sincere, but Hank laughs, because Connor is a fucking android — he doesn't get lost. He tells Chris this. Chris smiles and commends him for his (relative) punctuality. Chris is a good friend. But he doesn't placate the stone in his stomach, because the Connor-shaped vacancy it still very there and still very surreal. It is 11:09 now. No awkward pleasantries. No dog-related inquiries. The office feels empty.  
  
Connor is well-liked in the DPD. He is pleasant, efficient, grudgingly handsome. Everyone wants him as a right hand — Brown tried to bribe him with a cheeseburger just last week. There's a wall dedicated in his name, just east of the holding cells. This is a running gag — Hank knows they do it to get on his nerves. It works, because Hank knows Connor is proficient, eager and able, but he's _Connor_ , not android Jesus, sent by the heavens.  
  
But maybe they're not so awry, because it's 11:25, now, and when Connor floats into the office he turns heads like it's Judgement Day.  
  
Chris drops his coffee again. Hank stands. The tension in the room simmers and he is certain Connor is about to be assaulted, in his own damn office. Gavin gets there first.  
  
He saunters towards him, framed by the entrance. Connor turns to face him. He smiles politely. Gavin shoulders him, hard. Connor's mouth is moving — he is saying something. Gavin's jaw is moving, now, too. No one can quite hear what they're saying. Gavin bares his teeth. Chris is ready to step in.  
  
Connor takes Gavin by the neck, bends down, and knees him in the stomach.  
  
In between inner pandemonium, stifled silence and Gavin cursing, Connor adjusts his tie and occupies the Connor-shaped absence in the desk adjacent. He enters the portal and begins to work. Hank tries to close his mouth.  
  
"Why are you standing, Lieutenant?" Connor doesn't look up. His lids flutter.  
  
Hank sits down. He can't quite find the words.  
  
"What in the ever-loving _fuck_ , Connor." he says, instead.  
  
"I don't see the need for profanities." Connor still doesn't look up. Somehow this irks him.  
  
" _Don't see the need for_ — for fucks sake, Connor, you assaulted an officer!"  
  
Connor looks up. He smiles like it's 10:00 am in the office, "Not an officer. Detective Reed. I'm having difficulties understanding the problem. I'm doing everyone a favour."  
  
"You — yes, you are, thank you — but you can't _do_ that, alright? It's —"  
  
"Against protocol?" Connor interjects. Connor never interjects, "You expressed indifference to this specific regulation when you violated it last Friday, Lieutenant."  
  
It is difficult to argue with an android. Hank is unsure of these new developments — if they should be praised or censured.  
  
"Ok, smart guy, _settle down_ ." The office is quiet. Gavin has limped his way to medical, "Forget it. Just — don't do it again."  
  
"Understood." Connor chirps, as if he hadn't just kneed Gavin Reed in the abdomen like the hero they needed, but didn't deserve.  
  
They work in silence for a minute or two. Loitering officers pass skeptical slants of the eye. Hank can't take it anymore — he closes his tab.  
  
"So, uh —" he leans back in his chair, crosses his arms around his chest, "where were you goofin' off to this morning?"  
  
Connor's brow is furrowed. He breaks concentration. His brows relax.  
  
"This morning?" he sounds distant, "I went to the dog park. There were reports of android-affiliated disturbances. I went to investigate."  
  
Hank laughs — it sounds empty, "That's a white lie if I've ever heard one."  
  
"It is." Connor smiles. He turns back to his screen, "Very good, Lieutenant."  
  
Silence fills the gaps in their conversation. It hangs like a storm-grey cloud overhead. Hank leans forward, clears his throat.  
  
"You probably know this already, Connor, but, uh —" Hank is aware of how ridiculous this sounds, coming from _him_ , the disciplinary strike advocate, "— office hours start at 9."  
  
Connor nods. He doesn't look like he's listening.  
  
"I am quite aware. This doesn't, however, seem to apply to you, Lieutenant," Connor's eyes meet his for a fraction of a second, "I don't see why it should apply to me, either."  
  
"He's got a point." Tina meanders by, suave and casual. Tina loves Connor. Would love to get into his pants, "The office could always use another Anderson."  
  
Tina walks away. Connor turns to look at him. He smiles.  
  
"She was being sarcastic." he says.  
  
Hank buries his face in his hands.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Connor is late three times that week. On Thursday he doesn't show up at all. On Friday he is called into Fowler's office. Everyone watches with bated breath. Connor walks out chipper and aloof. Fowler walks out looking ten years older.  
  
On Saturday a triple homicide is reported and three squad cars pull up across 72 Algonquin St. Connor has decided to make an appearance.  He asks about Hank's week on the drive. He doesn't appear perturbed, nor out of the ordinary. Hank's answers are brusque — Connor frowns the rest of the ride.  
  
Connor opens the door for him when they arrive, the pavement blinking red and blue. He sounds apologetic, but looks perplexed. They enter the house — a calm brownstone condo — flanked by Collins and Andreas, a PM700.  
  
Not so much brownstone anymore, but redstone — bluestone, perhaps, for Andreas and Connor. Hank wrinkles his nose — Pearson makes a face. Connor turns into the living room, where an AC700 has been dismembered tastelessly. It’s a clusterfuck.  
  
It takes an hour for the coroner to arrive and another three before they collect sufficient evidence. Hank is certain Connor has consumed at least three gallons of thirium when he thinks he isn’t watching, without so much batting an eye.  
  
It’s three in the morning when they rendezvous outside. Hank and Collins look tired. Connor and Andreas look impeccable — if not somewhat vexed.  
  
Connor turns to Hank. He doesn’t like reporting to other officers, “All the evidence points to android involvement. I found traces of thirium in the washroom, belonging to an AP700. The victim was an AC model.”  
  
“A single android — _person_ —“ Collins chooses his words carefully, “— is hardly enough to disarm, then incapacitate three people.”  
  
“Yes.” Connor doesn’t look at him, “I suspect there was an accomplice. Possibly human. There were unidentified prints in the kitchen. I need to cross-reference them with the DPD database.”  
  
“Alright, hotshot,” Hank says this chaffingly, “identify a murder weapon?”  
  
“No. It was disposed of.”  
  
“Deconstruct? Reconstruct? Whatever the hell it is?”  
  
“Reconstruct.” Connor corrects. He hesitates, “There wasn’t enough evidence.”  
  
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up,”  Hank scratches his chin, “what’s your conclusion?”  
  
Connor looks very serious. He adjusts his tie. He rubs his hands together, and stares him square in the eye.  
  
“It’s a clusterfuck.” he says.  
  
Collins drops his clipboard. Andreas bends over to pick it up and Hank chokes on his spit.  
  
“It’s —“ he blinks, is certain he misheard, passes Collins his coffee, “I’m sorry?”  
  
“A clusterfuck.” Connor repeats. He enunciates every syllable clearly and without discretion. He sounds confident.  
  
Hank brings his hand to his lips. There’s an ugly silence for a moment — this stretches and sprawls for a lifetime. Collins is looking at him and Andreas is looking at him and Connor is — as usual — looking at him. Somehow Hank feels defensive.  
  
“What — what the _hell_ are you assholes goggling at?“ Hank crosses his arms, uncrosses his arms, jabs a finger in Conner’s direction, “This wasn’t — I didn’t do this. I didn’t _teach_ him this, alright? For Christ’s sake —“  
  
Andreas raises a brow, raises the other. She is unconvinced. Hank grinds his teeth and grabs Connor by the elbow. He’s tired. It’s 3 am and he’s tired — too tired for this bullshit.  
  
“Yeah, yeah — _fuck you_ . Let’s go, Connor. Get the hell outta here.”  
  
Connor smiles at Andreas, nods at Collins. They get into the car. And it isn’t until they’re on the highway, lurching through rolling hills, radio jazz thrumming them into an easy silence, that Hank steals a glance.  
  
Connor is looking at him. His face is half-lit by dilapidated street lamps, flickering dangerously in the moonlight.  
  
Hank can’t help it — he laughs.  
  
“ _Clusterfuck_ ,” he repeats, incredulously, face split in a grin that reaches from ear to ear. He leans over, and tousles Connor’s hair, “That’s my boy.”  


 

* * *

 

  
  
It’s 3:27 am. Connor has spare keys and he lets them in, throws the door open and allows Sumo to tackle him to the ground. Hank leaves them in the doorway. He needs a drink.  
  
It’s 3:49 am. Hank throws his beer back and Connor opens the TV. They sit down — Connor conjures a blanket and drapes it over their knees. Sumo rests his chin on Connor’s lap. He’s drooling but Hank knows Connor doesn’t care.  
  
It’s 4:20 am. Hank makes a joke that Connor doesn’t understand. They’ve been talking about sweet nothings for almost an hour. Hank is through his fifth beer — Connor won’t shut up about it, so he stops drinking. Hank’s head lolls in the easy static of the TV.  
  
“So —“ he says, “— we ain’t talking ‘bout it?”  
  
“I don’t know. We’ve been talking for 31 minutes and 25 seconds.” Connor pries the empty bottle from his hand and sets it down. He considers, then purses his lips, “I’m sorry. Talk about what?”     
  
“Your eh — _you know_ , your fuckin’ — ah, you know —“  
  
“Spit it out, Lieutenant.” This is unexpected. He says it politely.  
  
“That!” Hank slurs, leans forward on his elbows. Sumo barks, “Your goddamn, uh, your fuckin’ attitude!”  
  
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant —“  
  
“Hank.”  
  
“.... _Hank_. I don’t understand.”  
  
“You’re a smart guy. Figure it out. Shitty attendance, lashing out at Gavin, an’ —“  
  
Connor’s LED spins. His lids flutter, “— My timely profanities at the crime scene.”  
  
Hank barks a laugh, “Timely! Yeah, yeah —“ he throws an arm around his synthetic shoulders, “Listen, Connor, you’re your own man now. Do whatever the fuck you want. But, uh,” he runs his knuckles over his chin, “Not all habits are — healthy. Like the one’s yer picking up now. From me. Me! Goddamn, of all people —“ he breaks off into a chuckle. Connor is staring very hard at the wall. His LED is still spinning.  
  
“Hey —“ Hank points at a potted plant, “TV’s that way.”  
  
Connor turns his head to stare very hard at the potted plant. He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. Hank says something incoherent that Connor doesn’t reply to. Silence.  
  
“I am having... _difficulties_ —“ he says, finally, “— _adjusting_ , to... _deviancy_. Independence.” he runs one hand over the other, appreciating the smoothness under his fingertips, “There are... inconsistencies, in my program, my — my system. I can’t quite figure it out. I’ve always thought I was a machine. I’m finding it difficult to abandon these sentiments.”  
  
Hank pulls him a little closer. He doesn’t do this purposely. He understands.  
  
“Observational learning.” Psychology 101 — he’d learnt this a lifetime ago in middle school. Things were different then, for the better or for the worse, “You’re try’na learn to be an emotional shitstorm, a — a human, like me.”  
  
“Bandura, 1961.” Connor recites. He sounds distant, but relaxes in his arms, and doesn’t speak for a while, “I apologise if my recent behaviour has been... unpleasant. I will try to amend them to your liking.”  
  
Hank gives Connor a noogie, knuckles pressing half-moons against his matted hair. Connor doesn’t seem to know how to respond. He sits there silently.  
  
“Do that, don’t do that — I don’t fucking care, Connor! Whatever floats your boat. It’s a free country now.”

"Are you sure?"

Connor rests his temple on Hank’s shoulder. He shifts, then shifts again. He doesn’t appear comfortable, but he doesn’t move away. His brows relax. Yellow, blue, blue. Hank runs a hand through his hair. It is deceptively soft.

"Sure as I've ever been," Hank throws his head back, “Just don’t — y’know — just don’t become an alcoholic, alright?” he closes his eyes, “Nothin’ good ever comes out of it.”  
  
Connor doesn’t look up, but he is smiling. Blue, blue, blue. His eyes are open. He looks relieved. Hank doesn’t stop running his hand through his hair.  
  
“I can’t drink, Hank.” Connor says.  
  
They fall asleep on the couch.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Things fall back into place.  
  
Gavin is an asshole, Chris balances the bitter with the sweet. Fowler is strident and Tina is coy. Hank is late. Connor is early.  
  
There are rare occasions when their worlds collide and their lines blur. Sometimes Hank arrives in the morning. Sometimes, Connor in the afternoon. It amalgamates, becomes inconsequential in the melting pot that is normality.  
  
Connor moves in. It’s something that is unsaid, and will remain unsaid. They are both lonely people. There’s a piece of Hank in Connor — and a Connor-shaped cavity in Hank. They fit.  
  
Connor isn’t completely free of Hank’s influence. He begins to listen to heavy metal, arrives one day with his hair unstyled — the office takes photos to commemorate. It is framed on Connor’s wall. Connor smiles at it every time he passes. His work ethic changes, but he is still precise. Not as a machine, but as an officer. His reports don’t have a single letter out of line.  
  
Sometimes he forgets, slips back into his programming. But that’s no matter — he is alive.  
  
They are driving home. Connor has his eyes open, but he hasn’t moved for over 25 minutes. Hank clears his throat. He snaps his fingers in front of his nose.  
  
“Uh — hey!” once, twice, three times. Connor blinks, lurches forward in his seat, “ _Jesus!_ ”  
  
Connor looks around quickly.   
“I’m sorry,” he says, fixes his tie, moves in his seat, “I was making a report.”  
  
“Bullshit.” Hank sniffs, “You were asleep.”  
  
“I was asleep.” Connor presses his lips together. He is trying not to smile, “I will remember to close my eyes next time.”  
  
Hank doesn’t say anything but he grins, a wide smile that shows teeth, the whole nine yards. He reaches over and tousles Connor’s hair.  
  
For the first time in a long, long time, Hank is alive, too. He turns his eyes back to the road, and laughs like it's his first.   


**Author's Note:**

> hhhhhhhOpe u enjoyed!! am very rusty. i apologise.  
> feel free to hmu @mimonadraws (tumblr) if u wanna talk!!  
> spoiler: i dont draw. i literally have no time)


End file.
